Centre Ice
by Commodore Norrington
Summary: Two sons, two fathers. Twenty years before he's even heard of a Stargate, Rodney has a chance encounter.


The Maple Leafs were up three points as the second period drew to a close. Jack sighed, briefly wondering if maybe the North Stars' cause was a lost one. It didn't really matter; he would root for his home team in any case. Still, it would be nice to cheer a winning team.

"Whaddaya think?" his dad inquired, smiling broadly.

"It's not looking good," Jack admitted, returning the smile anyway. He hadn't seen his dad since his graduation from the Academy four years ago.

"You having fun?" Dad asked.

"You betcha!" Jack answered sincerely, pausing to watch the North Stars' center break away with the puck and race toward the goal. The attempt was foiled, though, and Jack groaned. Turning back to Dad, "This was a really great idea, Dad."

Dad clapped him on the shoulder playfully. "Not sick of fishing?"

"Are you kidding?" Jack responded. "We've hit the best spots on either side of the border. And this game is..." he trailed off, unable to find a word to do it justice. "Even if we are getting our tails kicked," he added ruefully.

------

Rodney hunkered in his seat, trying to make himself as small as possible. Every once in a while, everyone around him would yell loudly and stand up, waving their arms wildly. He assumed that meant their team had scored. It was hard to tell what was going on, though. He didn't understand this game, couldn't figure out why people would intentionally put themselves in harm's way for the sake of a little black piece of...well, he wasn't sure just what the puck was made of but he was certain it was not worth getting your teeth knocked out over.

"Isn't this great?" his father shouted over the roar of the crowd. "The Maple Leafs are doing amazing this year!"

"If you say so," Rodney shrugged. Honestly, he wouldn't have known who the Maple Leafs _were_ if kids at school weren't so obsessed with the sport.

"Hey," Father growled, grabbing Rodney by the shoulder. "Why don't you show a little gratitude, eh? I paid a lot for these tickets."

"Sorry," Rodney answered, slightly alarmed by the strength of Father's grip. "Thanks."

"Besides," Father continued, letting go of Rodney and turning back to the game, "it's money a lot better spent than that $100 a month for your stupid piano lessons."

"But I like piano lessons," Rodney returned, careful not to whine. Father hated whining.

Father's eyes flashed. "Piano is for girls," he scowled, clutching his beer tightly. "No son of mine is going to be a sookie piano player." Just then, the Maple Leafs scored again and Father leapt to his feet, cheering with the rest.

Rodney flinched as warm beer splashed on his face, and tried to hold his anger in check. Father flopped back into his seat, grinning widely. His grin faded when he turned to Rodney, though, and Rodney braced himself.

"Look, Rod," Father started, apparently trying to be civil. Rodney wished he wouldn't call him that. "Hockey is a manly sport. Sweat, blood, tears...beer," he laughed, hoisting said beverage jovially. "This is what manhood is all about."

------

"Hey, Dad," Jack called as the buzzer marked the end of the period. "I'm gonna go grab something to eat. You want anything?"

"No, thanks," Dad replied easily. "Hurry back!"

"Will do," Jack assured him, taking the stairs two at a time.

------

"Rod," Father yelled. Rodney wondered if it was worth it to pretend not to hear him. "Rod, I'm talking to you!"

"Sorry," Rodney answered quietly.

"Go get me a sandwich," Father ordered.

"Yes, sir," Rodney obeyed immediately, eager to escape to the relative quiet of the concessions area.

------

Jack frowned at the length of the line. Why did everyone want food at the same time as he did? There was nothing he could do about it, though; he just hoped he wouldn't miss a minute of this hockey game. In the crush of people, he didn't notice the young boy wearing slightly tattered clothes and looking thoroughly miserable step into line behind him.

------

Rodney got in line behind a tallish man probably in his mid-twenties. He was glad the line was long; it would give him more time away from the game and his father. He squinted at the list of refreshments, quickly calculating the cost of two sandwiches and a pop. He reached into his pocket for the money, and realized with a deep dread that he had none.

------

Jack heard a quiet expletive behind him and turned, curious. His gaze swept several candidates before it fell, almost accidentally, on the ten-year-old behind him. The kid was digging through his pockets, whispering curses and looking pretty frantic.

"I hope you don't say that in front of your mom," Jack commented dryly. The kid looked up, a perplexed look creasing his features.

He recovered, though, and rolled his eyes. "'Course not." He glared at Jack, still searching his pockets though even Jack could tell the attempt was futile. "I'm not stupid."

"Didn't say you were," Jack replied lightly, watching the kid with one eyebrow slightly raised. "You don't have money."

"Brilliant, Sherlock," the kid scowled. He tried to look disdainful, but on his young face it turned into more of a pout.

------

Rodney wondered why this guy was talking to him. Adults never noticed him until he did something brilliant, like the time he had taken apart a television and put it back together. All he'd been doing this time was standing in line. Granted, he had used the word Father always said when the bills came (and a few choice others his mother sometimes called his father) but this guy hadn't even been mad. Rodney was usually pretty careful to restrict his cursing to his room and, occasionally, the dog. He'd always expected any adult who might hear him to be unspeakably angry, wash out his mouth with soap, maybe even teach him a few new words.

Not this one. Rodney supposed it was because he was relatively young himself, no more than twenty-eight and probably not even that. Whatever the reason, the guy was being almost..._friendly_ to Rodney, something he had not experienced since his first day of kindergarten. It threw him. Normally he tried to refrain from being outright hostile to strangers, unless they really pissed him off, but this guy wasn't patronizing him, wasn't yelling at him, wasn't even ignoring him. He wasn't sure how to respond, so he resorted to a sort of sullen sarcasm. (Actually, he was pretty proud of his 'Sherlock' line.)

"And you don't want to ask your dad because...?" the guy asked, eyeing Rodney shrewdly.

Rodney managed to keep his jaw from actually dropping open, but his eyes goggled despite his best effort. "How'd you-- I mean, what do you care?"

"Just tryin' to help out, kid," the man shrugged.

"Oh, well, um," Rodney stammered, at a loss. "I just...don't wanna bother him. I'll figure something out," he added hastily.

"I'm sure you will," the guy agreed, cracking a smile. Rodney, puzzled by the lack of condescension in the man's voice, reluctantly returned it. "Aha!" the guy crowed. "You _do_ smile."

Rodney giggled. He was starting to like this fellow.

------

The kid's laugh was surprisingly infectious, Jack found. He didn't look like the kind of kid who laughed much, one of those all-work-and-no-play bookworms. His expression through most of their conversation had been disturbingly staid, making him look far older than what Jack guessed to be his nine or ten years. His vocabulary and general attitude were likewise too mature for one so young. But when he laughed, all Jack saw was a little boy.

"How much do you need?" he heard himself ask.

------

Rodney couldn't believe it. This man, this stranger, was offering him money...for no reason at all! His initial suspicion was tempered by his impression of the man in front of him. He didn't seem like the nefarious (Rodney had learned this word several days ago and was itching for the opportunity to try it out) sort and he had been nothing but nice to Rodney. Nicer, in fact, than just about anyone Rodney had ever met. Still, he couldn't help but think his father would not approve.

"What's in it for you?" he asked warily.

"Uh, peace of mind?" the guy suggested, squinting. "Knowing that I did a good deed? I don't know."

"You don't...want anything from me?" Rodney asked incredulously.

"Just your soul," the man conceded. Rodney stared in horror. "Come on, kid, it was a joke!" He sighed. "I don't want anything from you; I promise."

The man spit in his hand and offered it to Rodney. Rodney looked at it with revulsion, then up at the man. The guy's brown eyes widened as he realized Rodney wasn't familiar with the ritual.

"You spit in your hand," he instructed, "and then we shake."

"Why?" Rodney asked, disgusted.

"To seal the deal," the guy explained. "You take the money and I won't ask anything else of you."

Rodney had definite concerns about how sanitary this was, but he trusted this man. Grimacing, he spit into his palm and slowly shook the guy's hand. The guy grinned and Rodney returned a somewhat pained smile. As soon as his hand was free again, he hastily wiped it on his pants.

------

Jack chuckled as he watched the kid hurriedly rub the spit off his hand, and reached into his pocket for his wallet. He peeled off a couple of bills and handed them to the kid, who still seemed reluctant to accept it.

"Come on," Jack urged him. "We shook on it."

"But this is," the kid started, staring at the money in disbelief. "This is way too much!"

"Ah, keep it," Jack shrugged.

------

Rodney was speechless. No one had ever given him money before. Before he could gather himself enough for a 'thanks, mister,' it was the man's turn at the counter. Rodney didn't pay attention to what he ordered, couldn't stop wondering why this complete stranger would give him money when his own parents didn't trust him with an allowance.

"Oi! Titch!" Rodney started. The cashier was looking down at him, annoyed. "You gonna order something?"

Rodney, reddening, quietly requested his father's sandwich, plus a sandwich and pop for himself. As he handed the irritated cashier his money, his new friend's order was delivered. Rodney turned to him, determined to say something before he left.

The man beat him to it. "Good luck, kid," he smiled, clapping Rodney on the shoulder briefly before taking off.

"Thanks," Rodney said softly, watching the man's retreating figure make its way back to the rink.


End file.
